


Marigolds

by erwneoten



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, blood mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erwneoten/pseuds/erwneoten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A homeless kid with bleached hair and deep green eyes sits in the corner of Garrett Hawke's coffee shop one rainy evening, and Garrett decides to do something nice for him.</p><p>***Rated Teen until chapter 4, Explicit from there on after!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a short story class, so some canon details have been changed (Fenris's name and the make of his tattoos, for the most part) in the interest of passing this off as not-fanfiction. Rest assured their characters and the nature of their relationship remains the same as in canon.

Garrett decides he’s gonna make the kid a mocha.

There’s still a half-hour before close and it’s still pouring out and doesn’t look like it’ll stop anytime soon, and the poor thing’s been sitting at one of the tables for hours, hunched over his book and shivering. He figures the kid’s probably homeless and just trying to get out of the rain (he says kid, but that’s probably not the case-- from what Garrett can tell he looks early twenties, maybe, just scrawny as hell), but he’s a lot quieter than some of the homeless guys they get in the shop, and not nearly so disheveled.

Alright, that might not be fair, he might not be homeless-- he might just be some hipster college kid come to hang out in Garrett’s coffee shop all evening. He’s dressed in a heathered grey t-shirt (Garrett might raise an eyebrow considering how cold and rainy it is, but then again he’d be in cargo shorts himself if he didn’t have to dress up for work), dark skinny jeans, beat up sneakers. Nothing out of the ordinary. His hair’s a little odd, Garrett notices-- bleached a silvery platinum blonde, by the looks of the black roots just starting to poke through, and it hangs in his face in a way that makes Garrett question if the kid can even see the book he’s been reading-- but altogether he seems like more of the adorable urchin type of homeless kid, rather than the shank-you-with-a-comb type. Worst comes to worst, Garrett’s a big guy, and this kid’s basically a stick figure; he’ll take his chances.

So he decides to make the kid a mocha, because it’s damn slow and he’s bored and he feels almost bad for this poor twiggy kid that’s been sitting in his coffee shop in silence for hours. He starts the espresso machine-- can this guy handle espresso? If not, well, too bad-- and pours out milk to steam-- full-fat, ‘cause the poor thing could use some fat on him-- and when the steamer starts to make that high-pitched squeal, out of the corner of his eye he catches the kid flinch at the noise, and Garrett gets that awful guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach like when he accidentally steps on his dog’s paws. He mixes the rest of the drink as quickly and quietly as he can, and tops it with as much whipped cream as he can physically jam into the cup-- out of atonement, and also ‘cause the kid really could use the calories.

When he sets the cup on the table, across from where the kid is sitting, he doesn’t look up, but Garrett can see his shoulders tense up all jittery. Garrett waits a moment, but the kid just sits there hunched over his book, in stunned silence, pretending not to notice until Garrett scoots the cup across the table, closer to him.

“It’s on the house,” Garrett puts on his most winning, inoffensive smile, just in case the kid decides to look up one of these days.

And he does, slowly, pulling his big bottle-green eyes up to give Garrett a quizzical, almost suspicious look. Garrett’s smile grows, and he nudges the cup closer.

“I was bored, felt like practicing. If you don’t want it, I’ll toss it out, but I just thought I’d offer.” Garrett can get a good look at his features, now-- early twenties, definitely, still a handful of years younger than Garrett, but not a kid in the literal sense. His bleached hair stands bright against dusky skin, and those eyes stick out like sea glass marbles on the shore. His dark brows furrow, glancing from Garrett down to the drink.

“...what is it?” he asks, and it occurs to him that from the kid’s point of view, it looks like Garrett has just offered him up a heaping cup of whipped cream (not that Garrett would complain, if the same were served to him).

“It’s a mocha, extra whip. Hot, ‘cause you looked cold.”

With a lingering trepidated glance up at Garrett, the kid takes the drink gingerly in his fingertips, inhaling deeply before taking a trial sip. He considers, and then leans back and takes a bigger gulp, and Garrett takes his enjoyment of the beverage as a small victory.

“Do you just go around making people hot drinks, when they’re cold?” the kid mumbles.

“I-- no, well,” Garrett doesn’t have a good answer. He shrugs instead, “It’s just kinda miserable out, and you were cold, weren’t you? And it’s helping?”

The kid takes another drawn sip, and now that he isn’t hunched over the table like a goblin Garrett sees maybe why he’s cold-- the t-shirt’s got a deep V that goes halfway down his sternum, and just poking out of the collar Garrett can see a tattoo, a little splash of orange and gold across the copper of his skin. He tries not to stare, though, since if just getting free coffee apparently is enough to creep out a twitchy homeless kid, he doesn’t want to see how he gets with a burly barista watching him drink.

“It is warm, yes.” The kid shuts his eyes as he takes another long sip, and Garrett thinks he can see his brows unfurrow for just a moment as the he savors the drink, and he feels warm pride bubble up inside him like steamed milk. “...thank you,” the kid tacks on, and Garrett has to stop himself from beaming like the giddy idiot he is.

“Yeah, no trouble! Just thought you’d want a drink; no fun sitting in a coffee shop all day without coffee, right?”

The kid bristles, setting the mocha down, and that kicked puppy feeling wells up inside Garrett again as he tries to back-peddle, “No, I mean, you’re welcome to do it. Keeps me company, right?”

He casts those big green eyes at Garrett again, scrutinizing, brow knit, but picks the drink back up after a moment, holding it close to warm his hands. “I had just meant to get out of the rain.”

Something in the way the kid talks concerns Garrett, the way he measures his words, carefully choosing each syllable to be as unobtrusive as possible. To make himself smaller, quieter.

“Yeah, I can’t blame you. It’s coming down hard out there, prolly why no one but you’s really come in today.” He glances out the window, following the kid’s line of sight. He’s got a good view of the street from the seat he chose; of the cars passing by, bleary red breaklights like roses in the fogged-up windows, and of the sidewalk and of any poor souls braving the downpour in search of coffee, but there were none. Just the kid, cloistered into his corner by the window but out of it’s view, nursing his mocha. They stop, for a while, each listening for the roar of cars through puddles, rain on the tarmac, before Garrett breaks the silence again.

“Hey, you know, I noticed your tattoo earlier. What’s it of?”

The kid snaps out of the rain, deer-in-the-headlights look as he casts his eyes up to Garret. “I… sorry?”

“Your tattoo,” he gestures to the kid’s chest, shrugging. “I just saw the edge beneath your shirt, wondered what it was.”

The kid’s dark brows knit themselves into an uneasy look, but he complies to Garrett’s request, tugging down the collar of his shirt to show the design in all it’s splendor, and Garrett has to stop himself from letting out a low whistle at the beauty of it all, lest he make the kid even more anxious.

Emblazoned on his chest, from the tips of his clavicle running further down the side of his chest than his collar would stretch, are marigolds in full, vibrant bloom, painted in watercolor right into the kid’s skin.

“An… ex, of mine, was a tattoo artist,” the kid mumbles, turning his head aside as he lets Garrett examine the work. “I would end up his guinea pig when he wanted to experiment, more often than not.”

Garrett follows the lines of the work with eyes yearning, starting the base of the kid’s pronounced sternum (Garrett wants to make him three more mochas, he’s so thin) with vines and buds and blooms looping around his ribs, growing right out of his golden skin, and he’s pretty sure the green of the leaves is sprouting in the green of the kid’s eyes, and he traces them all the way up his collarbone until his eyes stop. A big purple spot rests against the bone. A bruise, big and blotchy, a blight on the marigolds. Garrett tugs his eyes back up to the kid’s face. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

The kid lets his collar fall back into place,  covering the bruise, covering the brilliant golds and greens in grey heathered cotton, and turns his head back to Garrett. “Thank you,” he says, but he looks so tired, and he turns back to his book and his drink.

 

 

Garrett wordlessly lets the kid stay past closing while he cleans the counters and tallies up the register, and he can tell the kid knows as much, but he keeps reading in silence with his scrawny shoulders all tensed up. Garrett wonders how much the bruise hurts, when he does that.

It’s only when he turns off the back lights and starts to lock up that the kid rises, closing his book and taking his cup and pushing in his chair neatly, then turning quietly to Garrett to let them both out into the rain. His eyes are cast to the floor, and Garrett can’t keep the frown from his face when he can’t see their green.

“Hey, do you have someone to pick you up? Somewhere to go?”

The kid shifts in his stance slightly, holding the empty cup close to his chest. “...not really, no. But I can figure something out.”

Garrett’s frown deepens in concern, and he plucks his keys from a pocket. “Your ex can’t help you out for tonight? Get you out of the rain, at least?”

“No.”

“Then, uh…,” Garrett can’t believe he’s offering, but, “You could crash at my place, for the night, if you wanted. If you don’t mind dogs.”

The kid looks up with big, startled eyes, like he’s surprised Garrett would take him in, surprised anyone would let him sit down somewhere warm and safe for a few hours, and suddenly all Garrett wants to do is make him enough mochas and top them with enough whipped cream that his bones don't show so much and all his bruises fade away and the marigolds can blossom golden across his chest.

“I…,” the kid starts, weighing his words again as the fear fades back into his face, but Garrett beats him to it.

“It’s no trouble, really. Keeps you warm, right?”

Garrett’s heart is thumping out of his chest because if the kid says no he’s gonna have to leave him in the cold but the kid nods. And then he looks up, and for the first time he sees just the ghost of a smile, sees leaves in his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett graciously extends the invitation for the kid to stay the night, but in Fen's experience, such offers only come with strings attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone commenting here (and in my short story class!) seemed to want more, so here it is! The semester is over, but we'll still see about a part 3. Thank you for all your encouragement! :3
> 
> Rating bumped up a bit for more explicit mentions of prior abuse.

“So, what’s your name, kid? It’d be weird to keep calling you kid, since you’re staying the night.”

They stand at the stoop of the man’s apartment while he fumbles with his keys. He’d been quiet for the length of the car ride home, but Garrett had not pressed conversation-- something he was grateful for. Instead, he had studied the man’s face as they drove, looking for traces of motivation amongst tousled black hair, for something beneath the serenity on the surface, something he could mistrust. The man has strong features and a handsome profile; broad shoulders and toned, athletic arms. He might be afraid of that advantage of size-- should be afraid, he tells himself, with anyone else you would be afraid-- but Garrett’s demeanor puts him naturally at ease, which should only give him more cause for concern. He cannot recall when he has last been at ease.

“Yours is Garrett, yes? That’s what it said on your name tag,” he responds, and the man chuckles.

“That’s me, yep. But that’s not the answer to my question.”

He shies away, slightly. He knows he has no reason to be cagey, this man is doing him a kindness by taking him in. He is grateful-- it is rude of him to appear otherwise. “Fen. It’s Fen.”

He sees one of Garrett’s dark eyebrows quirk up as the man unlocks his apartment door, that same look as when he’d asked about the marigolds in the coffee shop. Curious. Worried, maybe. He casts his head down as the man herds him inside, out of the rain.

Inside is small, but decently kept, moreso than he has seen in recent years. There are a few dishes stacked by the sink, and a basket of laundry in the entryway. His boxer, dozing on the couch, sleepily raises his head with one ear quirked as they enter.

“Kind of an odd name, isn’t it? Fen?” the man grins as he sets his keys and wallet on the counter, and then kicks off his shoes. “Short for anything?”

He bristles at the comment, “No, just Fen. It’s just my name.”

The man’s brows furrow, as if he has been slighted by such a guarded answer. Fen casts his gaze downward, under the guise of removing his soaked-through shoes, and mumbles in admission, “It’s Dutch for ‘peace’, or something like that. I don’t know.”

Garrett holds up his hands as a gesture of appeasement, easy smile rolling across his face, “Well, nice to meet you then, peace. Fen. Lemme show you around the place, get this slumber party rolling.” He grins at his own joke, and leads Fen down the hall.

There is not much to see of the apartment; Garrett shows him to the kitchen and points out where the cups and bowls and silverware are all kept, and tells him to help himself to anything in the fridge, and then he shows the bathroom, and tells Fen that he is welcome to shower if he isn’t already wet enough from standing out in the rain. He saves his own bedroom for last, which on it’s own is enough to sow a knot of unease in Fen’s stomach, amongst the growing sense of dread, but he pushes it down. The man has fed him and kept him out of the rain; he would not want to seem unappreciative.

“So, this is one of two options for you to sleep tonight,” Garrett says as he pushes open the door. The room is small, but comfortable, with a dog bed in one corner and a bed-bed in the other, and clothing strewn here and there in between. “Pardon the floordrobe-- hey, I guess you don’t have anything to sleep in, do you?”

Fen had not considered that, but it was true. He had nothing with him but the sodden clothing on his back. Garrett does not wait for a response before digging through his closet, “You’re like the size of my leg, but I’m sure I can scrounge up something that’ll fit-- aha!” A pair of plaid, flannel pajama pants hits the bed beside him, and Garrett pulls out his own pair soon after. “That should work, right? I can wash your stuff for tomorrow, if you want. Need to do my own laundry anyway, in case that wasn’t apparent.”

Fen nods, taking up the pajamas in his lap. He tugs off his damp t-shirt, and for just a moment he feels Garrett’s empathetic gaze linger on the tattoos across his chest.

“Anyway, two options. The bed or the couch; the choice is yours. You’d prolly get a better night’s rest in here, but I dunno, you might feel more comfortable on the couch.”

He shrugs, letting his eyes wander up to Garrett’s face. Fen feels almost unworthy, sitting beneath him. The man waits a moment for him to respond, and smiles warmly even when he does not, and ducks to the door “Bed it is, then. I’ll go change in the bathroom; make yourself comfortable, alright?”

With the gentle click of the door, Fen is alone in this man’s room.

He sits on the edge of Garrett's bed, feet and torso bare, the rest of him only clothed by what the man has allowed him to borrow. He has done this before, yes, but never for himself. Never on his own volition. That alone should make this better, right? But as he sits at the bed waiting, he notices his hands trembling as they always have, feels the dull ebb of the bruises that had finally driven him to leave, and he wonders how much better this could really be. If he’s just trading one sort of hurt for another.

He waits for the man to return to the bedroom, to take his penance for allowing him to stay the night. He expects as such. He has seen the way the man’s eyes rove over him; he has been nothing but courteous, perhaps even compassionate, but Fen recognizes the familiar longing there. Even here, he cannot escape it.

But fifteen, twenty minutes pass, and still Fen is left alone and undisturbed. He thinks back to the drink that Garrett had placed before him, tries to feel the warm, blissful sweetness of the milk on his tongue. He will try to savor that sensation as he does this, he thinks. Silently, as if the merest sound could break the spell of peace, he pushes himself off the mattress and creeps to the door.

Garrett is wrapped in a quilt on his couch, on his phone, dog at his feet. The man glances up when Fen appears in the hallway, and he has to stop himself from flinching again.

“Did you need something?” he asks, lazy smile across his face.

Perhaps the man wishes for him to beg for it. “I… you will be joining me in your bed, won’t you?”

The man’s eyes momentarily go sun-wide, and then he crinkles his brow, grin turned to something more apologetic. “Are you propositioning me? You’re cute, but no offense, I think you’re a little frazzled to be offering that right now.”

Fen can feel his face burning as he gropes for the words. “You don’t want me to…?”

Garrett only chuckles, setting his phone down, “Look, Fen, I’m flattered, but maybe let you get back on your feet, a bit more? It’s been a long night for both of us…”

He feels almost angry. He could not have wished this happening. He cannot keep the indignance from his voice, “Isn’t that why you took me home at all?”

The man’s grin falls, eyes wide again with understanding, and then concern. Hastily, he sits up on the couch. “You think that… no, no, Fen, I--” he shakes his head. “I don’t need that from you. I just-- you looked like you needed somewhere warm for the night. Somewhere safe. No payment necessary.”

He stares, jaw set, feels his eyes sting as tears well up, which he hates.

“Is it so hard to believe someone would just do that for you, out of kindness?”

He hates the answer to that question, hates how badly he’s misunderstood; how could he ever think that he could leave, if this is all he can do--

Garrett must have noticed, which he also hates, because before he can protest and get himself together the man’s throwing off the quilt and waking his dog and coming across the room to stop just short of Fen. He looks like he’d meant to wrap his big arms around Fen’s tiny shoulders but thought better of it, which Fen does not know whether or not he’s grateful for, and now they’re both just standing there.

“You’re running from something real bad, kid, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and Fen nods wordlessly, not trusting his voice to remain even, should he speak. Garrett nods in return, expression somber, “Do you… want to talk to me, about it? You don’t have to; just helps, sometimes.”

Fen hesitates, and his eyes are burning as he pulls them up to Garrett for just a moment before letting his gaze fall away. The man’s eyes are a soft amber, beneath all that hair, and full of worry. He nods, again. He does not know if he wants to talk about it. He does not know if anything can help. But the man gently pushes past him, back to the bedroom, and Fen follows.

Garrett sits on the bed, and Fen sits beside him, hunched, casting the marigolds in shadow. If he could he would rip them from his skin, he thinks. They are a brand, deceptive in their beauty. Raw flesh would be more true. Garrett does not say anything, but he can feel the man’s eyes wandering his body, lingering on the flowers and the bruises, trying to decipher one from the other.

“I left four days ago,” he begins, and then stops.

He does not know what to tell. He doesn’t know where to start.

“He would get me blackout drunk, sometimes, and pass me around his friends, to take,” he blurts, voice barely above a whisper because he fears what demons he might invite in if he speaks of it too loudly, fears his voice cracking. “Or sometimes, give me to just one at a time, if we needed the money. That’s why I thought…”

He cannot finish. Garrett is looking at him with horror and pity, and he feels half a mindless animal, when he says it out loud. He doesn’t feel human, he doesn’t--

Garrett does not hesitate a second time. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Fen’s shaking body, pulls him close, and the warmth of the man’s embrace quiets his mind.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, “You’re safe, you’re safe. You stay here as long as you need to, Fen, you don’t owe me anything for it.”

Fen chokes out a sob that shakes his ribcage and Garrett holds him closer, resting his chin in Fen’s bleached hair and whispering soft hushing noises into his ear. “I won’t let you go back to that. You’re safe here.”

 

  


He does not know how long they sat like that, only that he fell asleep with his head resting on the man’s shoulder, his marked chest pressed up against the man’s bare one. When he wakes in the morning, he is alone in the warmth of the bed, tucked into Garrett’s covers. The rain has stopped outside, leaving only hazy grey clouds in it’s wake, and from the kitchen he catches the scent of warm coffee brewing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up-- Garrett is cooking and Fen is eating, and they both curl up on Garrett's couch every night to watch movies that Fen hasn't seen. Until someone is injured one night, and someone has a panic attack, and both of them quote The Princess Bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awful wait there! As it turns out, mental illness makes it incredibly difficult to write, and this was an already-difficult chapter to conceptualize-- I didn't have the ending in mind until about 15 minutes before posting! Thank you guys for your continued support, everyone's comments are so lovely, and reading over them really got me through some tough spots over the summer. Your response has been so unexpected and so, so kind!
> 
> Next chapter should come somewhat sooner (knock on wood?). I've been chomping at the bit to write it since I posted the previous one, even have a page or two started, but this had to come first. Chapter 4 will bump the rating up to M or E, so be prepared for that!
> 
> Also as a note this chapter does contain reference to blood and injury, though I kept it as non-graphic as I could, as I'm pretty squeamish myself!

Garrett spends the next three days cooking up a storm of all his favorites-- eggs and pancakes, enchiladas, curry, spaghetti and meatballs, the works. The kid, Fen, barely eats at first, taking only the tiniest portion with big guilty eyes until finally Garrett says that he can’t possibly eat all this food alone (a bold-faced lie; he could probably eat all the food in his apartment in one sitting without breaking a sweat, were he bored enough, but this is for Fen’s sake).

He starts taking more, then-- two slices of pizza instead of one, extra helpings of chili on top of his hot dogs, and when they order chinese to sit down and watch a movie (because Fen hasn’t seen The Princess Bride!? And Garrett just can’t let that stand), he takes a big serving from each of the boxes and plops down on the couch to eat without prompting. It’s a big change.

“For reference,” Garrett says as he seats himself on the opposite end of the couch, “what you’ve been missing out on here is basically everyone’s childhood. My dad would call us over every time it was on TV; we couldn’t get enough of it when we were kids, my sister especially.”

“I’m certain this will be an enlightening experience, then,” Fen says, with an entirely unenlightened expression (though Garrett sees the smirk in the corners of his mouth). He slurps up a fork full of chow mein, earning himself a forlorn look from the dog. Garrett makes a mental note to save his own leftovers for the poor mutt, but Fen needs to eat all he can.

“No, really! If anyone’s ever quoted something weird around you, I’d bet that seventy-five percent of that was Princess Bride.”

“...so, this singular movie is responsible for anything odd ever said to me, my entire life? Is there something in particular I should be listening for?”

“I dunno, there’s like, uh… never start a land war in asia! You killed my father, prepare to die! There’s more…” Garrett wracks his mind as Fen’s brow furrows, as-of-yet unconvinced of the movie’s merits. “What about only mostly dead? Or as you wish? You have to have heard that somewhere!”

“‘As you wish’ is a thing people say, Garrett, somehow I doubt you can attribute that solely to this movie.”

“No, it’s like... when he says it in the movie, he’s really saying that he loves her. It’s a thing-- it explains it, though, you’ll see.”

Fen takes another big bite of noodles, “Well, put it on already. We’ll see what I recognize, I suppose.”

With a grin, Garrett lies back on the couch and starts the movie, “As you wish, Fen.”

 

Westley hasn’t even been revived yet when Garrett feels a soft weight on his shoulder; Fen’s head falling gently against it, lulled to sleep. On the one hand, he wants to wake him up before he misses the best part, but on the other, Fen’s face is soft and cool against him, and the way his pale hair falls across his shoulder, it catches the light from the movie just right and gets this silver glow around it (angelic, almost, if he’s gonna be cheesy about it, which of course he is).

That, and Fen needs sleep. Desperately. Needs peace.

He’s played it cool these past few days, trying to make him feel at home, trying to get him to relax, but what the kid said that first night still echoes in his head sometimes. It had all clicked into place back at the cafe when he’d mentioned his ex-- the flinching, the skittishness, the bruises-- but that. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to hold Fen close ‘til sunrise and cuddle him to sleep. He wanted to find the asshole that did this and break a bone for every mark he’d ever left on the kid--

But, he wants to cuddle Fen to sleep first.

As the credits roll, he watches the subtle rise and fall of Fen’s chest beneath a shirt that’s way too big for him, and very briefly considers putting a big arm around his dozing form and pressing a soft kiss into his hair. More seriously, he considers sneaking off to the bedroom and letting Fen sleep on the couch undisturbed, but his back’s been aching lately from the old upholstery, and he wouldn’t want to do that to Fen; not while he’s still healing, at least. He deserves to be comfortable.

So Garrett settles for a middle ground: scooping Fen up into his arms, as gently as he can, he carries him into the bedroom and tucks him softly into bed. He doesn’t wake at all, doesn’t even stir-- a testament to how tired he is-- and when Garrett shuts off the light and goes to close the door, he has to resist the temptation to blow him a kiss goodnight.

 

Garrett wakes up in what he assumes to be the middle of the night, to find a pair of big green eyes staring at him from across the darkened living room. He straightens to a sit, groaning groggily.

“Nn, Fen, are you--”

There’s a terrified yelp across the room, at first, as he speaks. And then the sound of glass shattering on his floor, and suddenly Garrett is wide awake and pushing himself to his feet and off the couch and lunging for the light switch. “Hang on, Fen, don’t move, I got it--”

He flicks the switch on the area lamp that illuminates the living room and the light bounces off the walls and everything is bright again and he swears under his breath, wrenching his eyes shut and rubbing at them to work, dammit, and when he opens them up again Fen is standing petrified, trembling, in a ring of broken glass in his kitchen. His eyes are wide and anxious, big sea-green marbles ready to bulge out of his head like a pug’s, his mouth twitches in the vague shape of silent, panicked words, but Garrett’s attention passes over his face quickly and drops down to the kid’s bare feet.

One is fine-- calloused, yeah, but fine. The other’s got blood pooling slowly around it, and it’s going pallid and Garrett has to wince and look away when he first sees it, which only makes Fen’s poor shoulders seize up more.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean--” Fen mumbles, pulling his eyes down to avoid Garrett’s gaze, which only serves to land them on his injured foot and turn his face a little more sickly pale.

He’s about to take a step backwards before Garrett jumps to stop him with hands outstretched, “No, don’t, the glass!” and immediately he regrets shouting because Fen gets that same mortified look on his face as he had the first night and so Garrett tries to calm his voice, calm the bile he can feel rising up through his throat, “You’re good, it’s not a big deal, just lemme…”

Garrett’s eyes are still bleary from sleep and despite how much his heart is racing he can’t see all the shards in the minefield of broken glass that Fen is stuck in the middle of, and the puddle of Fen’s blood is slowly spreading and he keeps squeaking out terrified apologies and Garrett doesn’t know what to do so he doesn’t think. He just does.

He straddles the the circle of glass (he feels something sharp prick at his bare foot-- whatever, he’ll deal with it later) and with one hand behind Fen’s knees and the other steady on his back Garrett scoops the panicking dude up into his arms for the second time today, like he’s fucking Westley and Fen is Buttercup.

Fen yelps as he’s pulled from his glass prison and clings to Garrett’s broad shoulders, still trembling but at least his terrified mumbling has gone silent. He carries the kid into the bathroom and sets him down seated on the edge of the bathtub, and then jumps up to start rifling through the medicine cabinet and pulling out whatever bandages he can find.

“It’s just a bit of blood, hey,” he coos in the most soothing voice he can muster. It's a lot of blood. “You’re gonna be fine, I’m gonna patch it up no worries-- aha!” Garrett plucks a near-empty tube of neosporin from the depths of the cabinet (dated 1998? These kinds of things didn’t expire, right?) and with a haphazardly-assembled first aid kit, he kneels before Fen on the bathmat, damp washcloth in hand. “You’re gonna be alright, alright?”

Fen only stares down at him with shellshocked green eyes. “I didn’t mean to break it,” he mumbles, and Garrett’s brow furrows. “I-- I’m sorry, I’ll pay for--”

Garrett suddenly realizes what’s happening, what the kid is thinking. He lets out a soothing hushing noise, his own internal frenzy smoothed over with a sudden need to comfort the trembling creature before him (scoop him into his arms, hold him ‘til sunrise), “Don’t even worry about it, it’s just cheap Ikea crap... I’m not mad, and even if I was I’m not gonna hurt you for breakin’ a glass, or for anything else, even. You-- you’re away from all that now, okay?”

He’s rambling, now. Garrett, shut up, he thinks, you’re not helping and you just sound patronizing. “I’m more worried about your foot, honestly…” He reaches down and wipes at the cut with a washcloth, wipes up the blood with a knot in his throat, and squeezes the kid’s foot as gently as he can to stop more from spilling. “Does that hurt?”

Fen’s desperately trying to calm himself, and manages to shake his head and Garrett nods in response, mumbling, “Well this part might hurt, so grab hold of my arm or something to squeeze if you need to, alright?”

And Fen does, and there’s a part of him that relishes the touch, strong slender fingers gripping at his forearm, but then he spreads neosporin over the cut and Fen lets out a pained hiss and all good feelings are gone, he just wants this to be over, “No, hey, you’re doing fine, I just… I’m gonna wrap it up now, okay? Just hang tight, hold still, I…”

Fen does, pursing his lips and squaring his shoulders and taking big, deep calming breaths, and Garrett tries to bend down to wrap his foot, but the cut’s pretty big and the bandages aren’t sticking and the damn thing is starting to bleed again and--

And then, quietly, “Garrett, you’re shaking.”

Garrett looks down at his hands, still fumbling with Fen’s bandages. True enough, there’s a tremor to them that’s prolly the reason he’s having so much trouble.

There had been a lot of blood.

Slowly, he pulls his hands back, and he squeezes them tight to try and stop the trembling. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, and then exhales it slowly. When he opens them again Fen’s looking right at him, and they make eye contact for one brief, sweet moment and Garrett sees all fear gone, all panic evaporated and replaced with concern. For him.

But then the spell is broken and the kid glances nervously down to the floor again, wiggling the toes on his bandaged foot as well as his good one. Garrett follows his gaze for a brief moment before his senses catch up to him and he looks away, away from the blood, good god. He takes another deep breath.

“My, uh… my little sister died in a car wreck, a while back. The one who loved the movie, I told you about her,” he mumbles, wringing his hands. His turn for awkward confessions, he guesses. “There was a lot of blood then. I guess it’s always kinda freaked me out after that.”

Fen’s shoulders sink a bit lower and Garrett wishes he’d just kept his damn mouth shut, “No, I mean, it’s gotten way better than it used to be, I was fine until… I dunno.” He shakes his head. “I was afraid of you getting hurt like that.”

He hesitates a moment, but then slowly Fen bends down, and ties off his own bandages, chewing at his lower lip (at any other time Garrett might have to make himself look away) and wincing slightly, but he succeeds where Garrett failed and binds his wound up properly. A pause, and then, “Garrett, I’m sorry.”

It’s not the same kind of sorry as before, not a panicked apology uttered to avoid punishment, but more subtle, solemn almost, and this time it’s Garrett who has to look away, who can’t make eye contact.

“It’s, uh, it’s cool, dude,” he chokes out eventually, “Don’t sweat it, just glad your foot’s been taken care of. I’ll tell you more about her later, maybe, if you want. But for now I should prolly go clean up the kitchen, yeah?” He wrings his hands-- the tremor isn’t noticable anymore, but he can still feel it there. Fen furrows his dark brows in apprehension, and Garrett thinks his heart almost flutters at the sight of it.

“It is late.. you couldn’t clean it in the morning?”

“I’d worry about stepping on it on my way back out to the couch, though. Or in the morning.”

“You could…” He sees the wheels turning in Fen’s head, see his eyes glance (bashfully?) back down to bare wiggling toes, “you could stay in your room, again. With me. Neither of us would have to pass the mess until we’re… less exhausted. More equipped to deal with it.”

Garrett swears his eyebrows are climbing into his hairline, and the ghost of the bile he felt that first night almost comes back to haunt him, “Fen, I…”

“Your bed is big enough, and we both sleep clothed besides. I… I hate to deprive you of sleep like this, night after night. But the choice is yours.”

Garrett’s speechless for a second, but he weighs his options. The offer is tempting, but Fen’s face on that first night when he’d offered that-- no. No. It had only been a matter of days, things couldn’t have changed that much, that fast.

And yet, even as he stands here he feels his head swim, feels the woozy after-effects of his little moment of panic. He wants to sleep. He wants to sleep in his own bed.

(And, of course, he wants to sleep with his arms curled around Fen, feel the calm rise and fall of his chest, both of them sharing body heat. But he doesn’t want to ask for that, he’s afraid of the answer.)

“I’d be worried,” he decides finally on the words. “About you.”

The words must not have been quite right, ‘cause Fen glances off to the side, an angry blush creeping over his cheeks. “I have learned quickly, Garrett, this… this isn’t like the other night. I am… I’m worried about you, as well.”

Garrett’s jaw just about falls off, but Fen barrels forward as if afraid he’ll get cold feet if he stops to stem the tide of words, “And despite what you say it is my fault that this happened, and if I am to be… to be living here for longer, I would not want to keep depriving you of your bed, especially when it is big enough for the both of us to share. I would be comfortable sharing it, one of us on each side. Platonically.”

] He doesn’t expect that last word to bite the way it does, but at the same time he’s glad for it. Maybe he hears bitterness behind it in Fen’s voice, too. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Fen, if… if you’re really, truly alright with it. Not just grateful for the bandaging, or feeling sorry for me, but honest-to-goodness don’t mind,” he scans the kid’s face for any sign of trepidation, and is almost surprised to find none, “Then… then god yes, I’d kill to be back on a proper mattress again, honestly. But if that changes at any point during the night, you’ve got to promise you’ll kick me off the bed to sleep with the dog, alright? Pinky-promise?”

At that, Fen cracks a small smile-- the first of the evening, Garrett takes note, at least since the glass snafu-- and nods in agreement. “As you wish, Garrett.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Garrett away at work, Fen decides whether or not he will do the smart thing and leave. But his feelings for the man are complicated, and there are some tensions he must work out for himself, first.
> 
> PLEASE TAKE NOTE OF THE RATING CHANGE BEGINNING WITH THIS CHAPTER!

He has been here for a week already, and he really should leave by now, he thinks.

Fen paces in front of Garrett’s bed-- the bed he's been sleeping in for the past week, the bed that he made all nicely this morning when he got up, in the hopes that it would encourage him not to lie back down, encourage him to leave as he knows he should.

The bed that, for the past few days, he and Garrett have shared, since the night he fell asleep on the couch and woke up in the bed, the night he’d had to comfort Garrett instead of the other way around. The night he’d invited Garrett to sleep beside him, against every screaming instinct, under the grounds that it would remain strictly platonic. And it had, despite his grim expectations.

The man slept curled up in the blankets on the edge of his bed (not unlike his dog, Fen noted), still and silent except for the occasional faint snoring, which Fen found he didn't mind, when he noticed it. Garrett was a space heater as well, which Fen didn't mind either-- though he was eating more now than he ever could remember having eaten in the past, his shoulders were still slim and his arms skinny, and cold nights left him shivering without Garrett beside him. And sometimes the man would kick a hairy leg over to Fen’s side of the bed in the middle of the night, and at first Fen would gently nudge it back over with his foot, mortified, but the past few nights he hasn’t bothered.

All of this worries him, as he stares contemplatively at the bed. It feels so different, so far beyond anything he's ever experienced, that he can't help but be suspicious. But at the same time he feels so guilty for it. Garrett has proven so kind, so patient, and every time he'd expect to be hit or at least disparaged he's only received chuckles and grins, and Fen can feel his guard falling and that terrifies him more than anything.

He wants to believe that Garrett would never hurt him, he wants it so bad, but he has never heard of anyone who was so kind without a price. He can stay, and wait for the man’s trap to spring up around him, wait to discover what Garrett really wants out of him, or he can flee.

Garrett left for work early in the morning, and will be gone another few hours. Fen has that time to decide what he will do. But in the meantime, against his better judgement, he lays back on the bed, wrinkling his meticulously-folded covers, and he buries his face deep within the man’s pillow and inhales deeply.

This is the crux of the matter, isn't it? He finds Garrett intoxicating.

He breathes in the man’s scent, musky and warm with a slight savory hint of coffee roasting, and curls around the pillow. He has never felt this way about anyone before, never thought he could feel this way, and it excites him almost as much as it terrifies him. He has experienced lust before, oh yes, but never as the active party, always as the object to be desired, and to be on the opposite side of this equation leaves him with a knot in the pit of his stomach that is equal parts dread and deep, aching longing for something intimate.

That first night he was nauseated with the thought of it, of returning to what he'd left under another man’s roof, but that hadn't been Garrett’s price at all. At the time, Fen felt relieved-- if not also ashamed, he hadn't meant to burden his host with his own baggage-- but now he finds himself almost wishing it had been that simple. He has trouble believing that Garrett expects nothing in return for his hospitality, but he can't think of anything the man would want him for, if not his body. And the longer he stays, the more willing he becomes to surrender himself, which terrifies him more than anything else.

Fen feels a tightness stirring in his jeans (he's changed into the clothes he was wearing before, as to take nothing of Garrett’s and leave nothing of his own) as the man’s musk warms his body. He wishes it had been that simple a lot, actually. Laying in Garrett's bed like this, breathing in his scent, feeling the lingering remnants of his warmth he finds himself fantasizing about it. He's grown to savor the thought of Garrett taking him, in this bed. Perhaps with his head pressed into the pillow as it is now. He would hope against hope that the man would be as gentle with Fen in this as he was in all things, that he would rest his strong thumbs on the dimples in Fen's back as he eased into him, would place a kiss at the nape of Fen's neck every time he thrust forward; all the small, tender gestures that he has never experienced but has always dreamt about.

He swears to himself, untangling one hand from around the pillow to tug his fly open. He should not do this; he has a slim few hours to leave, and this will only want to make him stay. He cannot afford to do this, he thinks as he worms a hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, he cannot falter now. But the thought of Garrett’s weight and warmth on top of him proves intrusive, and the temptation to wonder about the specifics of his girth too strong to resist. Fen is doomed-- if this is how the trap is sprung, than so be it; he deserves this fate. He closes a hand around himself and begins to stroke.

Today he imagines that Garrett comes home early and finds him in such a state; sprawled over the bed, panting, rock-hard, too deep in his fantasy to notice the man's presence until it is too late. He would sit up, immediately, spouting ashamed apologies, but Garrett would not be angry, no. He would be bashful, he would be amused. He would procure a flirty quip, in jest, presumably, but Fen would take notice of the way his eyes linger, of the flush in his cheeks, of the stirring in his trousers.

Fen (much braver in his fantasies than he ever has been, could ever hope to be in real life) would then admit, “I was thinking about you, Garrett”, and Garrett would blush, mouth agape. “I could show you the real thing, Fen, so you wouldn't have to imagine,” he would say, and then he would tear off his shirt, and the two would meet in a lustful embrace of passion. He groans, at the thought, and quickens his stroking, tightening his grip around his cock. He takes a corner of Garrett's pillow into his mouth, pressing needy kisses into the fabric as a stand-in for the man’s face, and imagines his lips a thousand times softer. In his mind, somehow, they are both nude now, and as he rolls onto his chest and arches his back and lifts his ass he imagines Garrett's rough hands guiding his body into position.

He bites down on the pillow, still pumping frantically at his own cock, and slides a finger into himself. In his fantasy, Garrett does this, murmuring sweet words to him as he eases Fen open. “I've wanted to do this from the moment you walked in the door,” he imagines the man saying, tries to imagine what his voice sounds like ragged, panting, dripping with desire, “I was waiting for you to say something, Fen, I want you so badly.”

Fen lets out a whimpering moan in response to his imagined conversation, and takes another finger as he imagines taking Garrett's cock. The man would slip in agonizingly slowly, and Fen would feel his length throb at every noise he made. Gently, he slides his fingers inside and out, and grips the base of his shaft, as in his mind Garrett picks up a rhythm, thrusting back and forth, his hips bouncing off Fen's ass as they gain speed. Fen grinds his hips down, into the bed, pumping frantically at his own cock and clenching down on the pillow as he imagines Garrett going deep, all the way in, filling Fen completely with his massive girth, and Garrett calls out his name as his thrusting grows more and more erratic, “oh fuck, Fen, you're so tight, I'm… Fen I'm gonna…”

It catches him by surprise, and he gasps as a spurt of hot, sticky liquid splatters across his stomach, his shirt, across the sheets he made so carefully, across Garrett's pillowcase. For a moment he can do nothing but stare in disbelief, panic bubbling up over the lingering pleasure. His clothing is a mess. The bed is a mess, Garrett’s bed. He will be furious.

His pulse quickens, arms trembling to hold himself up in the face of what he has done. He will scream and yell and there will be bruises, and Fen will not eat for days until he collapses, throws himself to the floor and begs and sobs, he didn’t mean to, please, he deserves this--

He falls into the pillow, face-first, and catches Garrett’s scent, again, and his labored breath hitches in his throat.

He is away from that, he reminds himself. He is warm and well-fed, no one has yelled, the bruises are healing. Slowly he exhales held breath, steadying himself against the soft fabric until his mind stops racing, heart stops threatening to pound out of his chest. There is no price he must pay for kindness, not here. Perhaps his presence is payment enough, for Garrett, as Garrett’s is for him.

He can stay here as long as he needs to, he said, that first night. He is safe, here.

He cannot leave Garrett’s bed in such a state.

He cannot leave, but he doesn't want to.

Slowly, gingerly, he tugs off his sticky clothes, and balls them up with the sticky sheets. As the panic subsides, he can still feel the afterglow, warmth radiating from his gut, spreading through his fingers. He puts on Garrett's pajamas, the ones he was given that first night, and goes to clean himself up.

 

Garrett comes home late, not early. When he hears the lock turning, Fen has just finished making the bed, the same as he had this afternoon, and he runs out to meet Garrett in the hallway. He is tired, but his hair is artfully tousled in just the way Fen imagined earlier.

“Something exciting happen today, while I was stuck in the coffee mines?” he asks, brow raised and smirking good-naturedly. Fen glances down, bashful, realizing how his eagerness to greet the man must come across.

“I… I am just glad to see you, is all.” Fen stutters over his words, unsure quite what he wishes to say. “I washed your sheets, today. And made the bed.”

“That's awfully nice of you to do! You didn't have to,” Garrett beams as he begins taking off his jacket, kicking off his shoes, “But I guess the sheets were really starting to smell like me, huh?”

A pang of guilt. He does not know what to say, but he is feeling brave. “I tried to… I was going to leave today. While you were gone.”

That kicks the smile right off Garrett's face, and Fen feels a though he's stepped on a dog’s paw, ashamed for even considering the notion. “You… I mean, you're perfectly free to, Fen. If that's what you want.” The quaver is apparent in Garrett's voice. “I just, ah… Let me pack you some food, first, at least, give you some money for the road--”

“I am not going, Garrett,” Fen says, with a finality he is unused to hearing in his own voice. He just cannot stand to hear the heartbreak for another minute. “If you'll have me, I… I like it here. Quite a lot. I would stay for as long as you would allow it.”

Garrett looks like he's going to cry, looks like he wants to go in for a hug, and Fen isn't sure whether he's grateful for the man's hesitance, this time around. He is feeling braver than he has ever felt before, braver than he could ever hope he'd be, “I have been… Finding myself enjoying your company more and more. And I wish to remain at your side.”

He feels heat rising in his face as a blush creeps over him, but Garrett looks positively stunned, mouth open and grappling for the words, for comprehension, “Fen, I, are you…”

“I-I am, I think. If you would have me…” His heart beats against his rib cage, echoing in his ears until the world seems to go quiet, but he reaches his hands out, shaking, an offering to the man--

And Garrett takes them, twines his own thick, rough fingers with Fen's long slender ones, and they both stand there unsure of what to do, until Garrett bends down at long last and presses a soft kiss to his lips, the gentlest he's ever felt. He utters a gasp in response, barely audible over the pounding of both their hearts, and presses back, and the two of them embrace.

He is unsure how long they remain that way, lips pressed together, hands in one another's. He could remain there forever, he thinks, enjoying the warmth, the man's scent, but Garrett is the first to withdraw, cheeks flushed and staring down at him with eyes wide, full of awe. Fen is humbled, bashful, even, and he starts to back away before Garrett opens his mouth to speak.

“I've dreamed of this, you know, I…” he sounds breathless, lost for words “I didn't want to bring it up, I was worried you… Promise this is what you want? For yourself?”

Fen nods, and he nods again, vehemently, and he presses his face to Garrett's chest and nuzzles against him, and he feels Garrett's strong arms wrap around his slender shoulders, squeezing him tight and holding him close. He has never thought much about what he wants for himself, but he is sure this is it. This is a price he is willing to pay.


End file.
